Shadow of Death
by VoxNexus
Summary: It's a battle for the ages. Spartacus, the renegade Thracian and Crixus, the Champion Gaul, are forced to face the Shadow of Death - Theocalese under the noses of magistrate Calavius and Rome's highest consuls. Will this fight bring them the glory they so long for?


**Spartacus: Shadow of Death**

The arena pulsed with an energy that was beyond words, beyond the limits of the Coliseums' stone walls. It trembled and quaked with an unearthly intensity, tickling Spartacus' soles from underneath his sandals. Beside him, Crixus surveyed the fight currently being lorded over by the magistrate and the crowd. A thracian and a mirmillo clamored with one another, their swords and shields carried the sound of steel in disagreement to the underbelly of the arena where the gladiator's awaited their scene.

A soaring reverberation of yells and screams passed through the arena with enough furor to tear the Coliseum from its foundation as the mirmillo advanced; the tip of his sword flashing and glinting as he brought it down towards the thracians exposed stomach. Winded from the still air and tiring assaults from the dark skinned mirmillo, he didn't have the fight in him to fend off the attack. He fell to his knees, the baked sand stinging his skin as his pours seemed to soak up the blood being drawn from out of him.

The crowd announced its approval with hollered acclamations and cheers as the Ethiopian gladiator crested his sword downward, splitting open the skin of the thracian's chest. The wounded man let out a rattled breath that turned into thick, muddlings as the mirmillo's sword was then pushed, in one sure, dauntless thrust, into his heart and out of his back. The crowd erupted with rambunctious flamboyance - pomp with contentment.

Spartacus took a quick glance at Crixus, only to be met by the Gaul's brooding profile before the gate opened and they both stepped out onto the sand, the sun scorning them with it's heat. They both turned to the podium, swords raised and voices strong enough that they carried all the way to the farthest rows of the complex.

"_Morituri te salutant!" _Those who are about to die salute you.

Consul, Gnaeus Clodianus gave what could have been a feigned smile and a dismissive flick of the wrist as the two positioned themselves into the center of the arena while he resumed his political banter with Lucius Sulla.

Before the gateway opened, the crowd rippled and fluxed in synchronized excitement as they chanted the name of their current champion.

_'Thee-_

_-ah_

_Ko-_

_-lese._

_Thee-ah-ko-lese.'_

Theocalese.

The gate shuddered open and a blonde haired, tattooed Briton walked out from underneath the shadows as if shedding a cloak. The crowds exhilaration swept through their seats with the ferocity of a tidal wave, 'causing Spartacus' ears to ring. Theocalese faced them, first to esteem the consuls, than the tribunes and patricians postured in the maenianum before catering to the vociferating plebeians in the pullati.

Fiery eyed, Theocalese raised his swords, gloating prematurely at the kills he had yet to make as the audience met his snarls with complimentary exclamations. He once again saluted the podium and grunted out the oath to the preoccupied consuls.

Magistrate Calavius quickly murmured something to a nearby locarius that bounded back inside before the balding Magistrate stood, greeting the crowd with his arms raised and his dark eyes ablaze.

"Capua!" he proclaimed, his voice shimmering with authority.

The crowd was like a crackling flame, as it sputtered and rose its voice before having its intensity doused by the Magistrate's smothering presence.

He continued.

"People of Capua...today's games are sponsored by _grand _lanista," - he stressed the word -, " Batiatus and Selonius, who – for the primus – reap the best of their slaves for today's tribune!"

The stands swelled and surged with mutterings, applause and bellows of appreciation as Calavius stared down at the three gladiator's and gave the signal to begin the fight.

Their blades sparked as they clashed. Spartacus' sword falling and rising with each labored blow that Theocalese knocked aside with his shield. The blonde's body and face was sprawled with deep scars that glistened with sweat. The muscles in his neck and arms bulged as he deflected, blocked and attacked with a flitting, swiftness that was executed with strange ease for a man of his size.

Vehemently, he knocked Crixus back with his shield and began to bring his gladius down as the heavy-set Gaul keeled away with a body roll, stirring up a mist of sand.

Spartacus, encouraged by renewed opportunity, assailed Theocalese's side, wounding the distracted man's arm before being tossed aside with his shield.

At this, the crowd exploded into tremblings of enthusiasm and anticipation, the collision of weapon against armor, sword against shield... the repetitive rhythm caught their breath and kept them in-tune to the activities in the sanded pit as Crixus reached for the helmet that had fallen from his head.

He seized it and raised it to the sun, so that it's rays would sear against Theocalese's face and temporarily blind him. As this happened, Crixus brought up his sword and as a flourish of energy gripped him, he poured the remainder of his strength into a single thrust aimed at Theocalese's stomach. The monstrosity gaped and buckled, his back arching into the blade, his eyes bulging. The onlookers from the stadium to the podium, stood and leaned forward, their voices polluting the air with shouts and yells.

From how their bodies bent towards the arena, you'd think they'd flood it as their passion increased in its rambunctious manifestation. Some began to stomp. Others hollered and bellowed: "Jugula! Jugula!" demanding a kill that announced itself with spray and hot drama.

Spartacus took a stance behind Theocalese, and kicked him to his knees- the Coliseum resonated with pleas for the gladiator's downfall. Spartacus brought his sword up to the Briton's throat and looked up at the podium.

Not a trace of hesitation flickered in Lucius' eyes as he gave the expected sign, a thumb's down, the pollice verso.

The crowd bloated with contentment, male and female voices mixing into an erratic ensemble of encouragement. "Jugula! Jugula!"

Spartacus clasped the side of Theocalese' clammy face, steadying him. The sound of the crowd undulated, up and down, as throes of screams and near manic sputters of jubilation prodded Spartacus' on, as his blade opened up the skin of Theocalese's throat.

At that moment, the clouds pulled back like a crinkling scroll, opening up to a downpour of rain. It seemed to have a cleansing effect on the arena. Muddying the sand, washing the blood from their bodies. The arena's attendees tilted their chins upward, soaking in the coolness and damp musk of it all. They stood, in reverent-like shock and awe as the pelting, raindrops tampered with the heat that engrossed the city for bare months. The gods were appeased, so it seemed, gratified by the death of a man whose sword struck down dozens of other's. Most plebeians closed their eyes, allowing the weight of the rain to press onto their eyelids as Theocalese's body was removed from the arena. The only memory of him was the stains of his blood that the sand adequately engulfed, as did the rain.


End file.
